A/N. I don't know whether this'd actually be what Vincent was thinking when he saw the coyote. Maybe it's what I was thinking late last night when I was listening to OST Collateral on my iPod. But I don't think it is, because it seems like it's what he'd think. Not exactly premeditated. Yes, I am new to the world of Collateral fanfiction...encouragement would come much appreciated. :-)

Bloodflower

Man and Nature, Man versus Nature, Man is Nature. All we're doing, day by day, sitting in the back of that totally sanitary, clean, empty cab that we like to call life, all we're really doing is trying to survive in an unnatural concrete wilderness. Let's talk about change, shall we? We never change, we just think we do – and before we know it, in the blink of an eye, it's gone, the last moment has passed us by and we are old. To hell with fancy ideas, it hasn't gotten done yet because we were never going to do it anyway. All we do is try to survive our realities, and there's no art in survival. We live, we die, and if we're lucky we might even enjoy it while we're at it, but in the end, nothing any of us do will ever make a difference.

It's really all about going back to our Neanderthal prehistoric roots – speaking in cosmic time, it wasn't so long ago we were hunter-gathering semi-homo sapiens who lived in caves with the dogs, and only a few seconds before then that we were amoebas in a newborn ocean. We're animals, biological organisms, that's the long and the short of it. We're killers. If we're not pointing a gun at the next man down the line we're guilty of self-murder, knocking ourselves out with the dope that's daytime TV. We're scavengers, living vicariously through falsified media reports of other peoples' lives. Too scared to really live, we're all of us too scared to live because none of us are going to make a difference anyway. And whether or not we're willing to admit it, we fucking well know that the truth isn't any different. What change is there that we can feasibly make, after all? We're a coincidence, an accident, man, the entire Universe is a fucking accident. This planet – me, you, anybody – we're all accidents, lost in a universe that's getting bigger, and it'll grow until it all falls apart and collapses in on itself. And then, given the right conditions, another coincidence, another t 0, what we call our 'universe' will remake itself. And where will we be? Nowhere, obliterated and forgotten by the same inexplicable system, lost in space, not even a memory. We're not even worth a memory – as a species, we're really not worth very much at all. Man, we imitate the system – our dreams, a universe that's collapsed and been reborn a hundred thousand times – we emulate a system that's never going to notice us, because we never notice each other. Nobody notices, it's a fact of fucking life, or what we like to call our existence. And the great thing is, we never actually notice we're doing it.

Because, in the end, that's what we all are – insignificant animals that think we are of some significance in the overall order of things. Even the coyote crossing the street is better than us – at least it isn't going to make assumptions that aren't true. No, w're only animalistic killers, every one of us, and all we do, all we are – be it in the next ten seconds, ten years, ten centuries – biological organisms of an arguably higher order, trying to survive in the concrete wilderness we've created for ourselves.

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